A Pocketful of Posies
by pineapplefan
Summary: Sam and Dean investigate an art museum where employees are dying from what appears to be the bubonic plague. Set after Episode 2x11: 'Playthings.' Eventual Sick!Sam, Protective!Dean, and quite a bit of angst to go around.
1. Chapter 1

"Got something?" Dean asked when he opened the motel door to find Sam hunched over the table, staring intently at his laptop. He set the coffee down and slid Sam's breakfast sandwich over to him.

"Thanks," Sam acknowledged. "And yeah, I think so. Check it out." He swiveled his laptop so Dean could take a look.

Dean sat down in the chair across from his brother. Sam had an article pulled up from the _New York Times_. "Whoa, hold up," Dean said. "You found something in our wheelhouse that made national news?"

"Maybe."

Dean squinted as his eyes adjusted to the screen.

"'Return of the Black Death?'" He read the headline out loud, frowning at the obscurity of it. He flicked his eyes at Sam. "Seriously?"

"There've been three cases of bubonic plague already," Sam told him pointedly. "All in Cincinnati, Ohio. Two have been fatal and one is heading in that direction."

"I thought that disease died out. Like… isn't it eradicated?"

"No, that's actually a common misconception," Sam explained. "It's rare, but there are still about 10 cases per year in United States."

"So if this thing's still around, why are you so sure this is our type of gig?"

"I'm not," Sam admitted, reaching for his coffee. "But there are some things that don't add up." He took a sip.

"I'm listening."

"Well, for one, all the victims were employees at the Cincinnati Art Museum."

"Okay," Dean said slowly, unwrapping his breakfast burrito. "So maybe that's where they contracted the disease. Maybe the museum has a rodent problem. Don't people get the plague from rats?"

"Fleas, actually. Sometimes _carried_ by rats. And the CDC is stumped, man. They can't find any trace of the genome of the bacteria on the museum's property. Or anywhere in the city for that matter."

Dean took a bite out of his burrito and chewed, mulling it over

"That's not all," Sam continued. "All of the cases in the U.S. in the last ten years have all been contained to the west coast. Cincinnati is midwest, closer to the east coast than the west coast."

Dean acknowledged that was unusual, sure, but _supernatural?_

" _And_ ," Sam said pointedly, letting Dean know that he was on his third and concluding point. "In this day and age, the plague is actually very treatable with antibiotics, as long as it's caught in time. And all the victims reportedly sought medical attention as soon as the symptoms began."

"Did the article shed any light on why the treatments might not have worked?" Dean asked.

Sam pushed himself back in his chair, leaning on just two legs. "Nope," he said with a sigh. "Like I said, the CDC is stumped." He raised his eyebrows at his brother. "So what do you think? Case or no-case?"

Dean wasn't sure what to think. There weren't any clear-cut signs that pointed to the supernatural, but to be fair, they'd hit the road for a lot less. Dean exhaled and ran his hands through his hair. "I dunno, man. It kinda seems like you're fishing."

Sam lowered his chair back to all fours and propped his elbows on the table. "It's quiet out there, Dean. Yellow-eyes has completely fallen off the radar... Ava is nowhere to be found... And this… This is the only thing I could dig up that even _remotely_ resembles a case." He shrugged. "I think it's worth looking into."

Dean licked his lips, fairly certain that Sam wouldn't agree with what he was about to say. "Or maybe we lay-low for a few days," he suggested, as casually as he could manage. He closed the laptop gently and calmly waited for Sam's reaction to his proposition.

Sam stared at him incredulously for a few moments. "Why in the world would we do that?" he asked finally.

"Because, Sam, you've been high-strung ever since Cornwall and that Pierpont Inn gig." Dean craned his neck so that Sam would meet his eyes. "You've had us chasing case after case – and that's fine, it is – but you're running on fumes, man, okay? And if you want me to choose between a ' _maybe'_ job and you getting some decent rest, well I'm gonna have to vote for the latter, kid."

Sam sighed. "Dean…"

"Look, I get it, okay? I know you think that the more people you save, the more you can change your… your destiny, or whatever…"

Dean still shuddered when he thought about the words that were exchanged between the two of them that night at the Pierpont Inn. Sam had been drunk, sure, but all that had done was let Dean see a glimpse into what Sam was really thinking. He saw how poorly Sam thought of himself when he begged for Dean to kill him. And worse, he saw how complacent and _relieved_ Sam became when Dean promised he would, just to get the kid to shut up. Sam had truly given himself a death sentence if things were to get out of hand – if he couldn't change his so-called "destiny."

"…But you're going to run yourself into the ground before you get a chance to do that," Dean finished softly.

Sam scoffed. "I appreciate your concern," he said, in a tone that conveyed quite the opposite. "But you're wrong, Dean. I'm not running myself into the ground. Hell, hunting is the only thing that allows me to get any sleep at _all_ , man. I need the distraction."

Dean snorted. "Yeah. That and booze."

Sam's features turned hard. "This isn't a joke, Dean."

"No, Sam. It's not."

Tit for tat.

His brother closed his eyes and spoke softly. "Dean, please."

Dean loathed that six-letter locution. "Please" truly was the magic word, and Sam knew it and abused it. Dean could never say no to a Sam Winchester "please."

Especially when they were accompanied by those damn puppy dog eyes, which Sam just happened to sporting right now.

Dean scrubbed a tired hand over his face. "Okay, fine," he relented. "We'll check out the museum. Get to the bottom of this plague business. But I have some conditions."

The corners of Sam's mouth twitched up. "Naturally."

"First, there will be no unnecessary monologues about famous artwork or the artists who painted said artwork, because frankly, Sam, I do not give a damn about what you learned during your art history course at Stanford."

Sam laughed. "Yeah, I figured you got enough of that in New York with Sarah."

"You can say that again." Dean cleared his throat. "Okay, second – and lucky for you, last – condition: It's a seven-hour drive to Cincinnati. You, little brother, will be sleeping the entire time. Even if I have to drug your ass."

Sam pondered this. "Sounds manageable." He extended his arm so he and Dean could shake on it. "Deal."

They finished their breakfast, packed up, and hit the road.

 **TBC…**


	2. Chapter 2

The Winchesters had never been to Cincinnati. They'd been to little Podunk towns in the surrounding areas of Ohio, but never to the city itself.

Sam made good on their deal and slept the entire drive. At about the three-hour mark, Dean had cursed himself for making that deal in the first place, because driving through a flat, cornfield-ridden Ohio wasn't exactly exciting. This was shaping up to be the longest seven hours of his life. But he didn't dare turn on some tunes out of fear of waking Sam. The kid desperately needed some shut-eye.

After everything that had happened with Ava and the new information that Dean had disclosed about the yellow-eyed demon, Sam was having many sleepless nights. Dean couldn't really blame him. He would've had trouble getting some decent sleep too, if it weren't for his mastered skill of falling into alcohol-induced comas.

Dean just hoped this case was actually a case, and not some desperate brand of distraction for Sam.

Cincinnati was a decent city, as cities go, Dean decided. It was built-up along the Ohio River, with a variety of hills surrounding the city. Charming, but not overwhelming. He could get on board with that.

They arrived around 8:00 at night and Dean scouted out a fair-looking hotel on the east side of town. He put the Impala in park and reached across to smack his brother in the chest.

Sam woke with a start. "Dean!" he griped, rubbing a hand over the invaded space. "What the hell?"

Dean smirked. "We're here," he announced. "Look alive, princess."

Sam scowled. "You're the one who wanted me to sleep the whole time, moron," he reminded Dean. "Are we really here already?"

"Yeah, and you can thank me later." Dean kicked open his door and Sam did the same. "Hey, why don't you get us checked in?" Dean suggested over the top of the car. "I'll go across the street and grab us some grub."

Sam stifled a yawn and leaned back to stretch his back out, nodding in agreement.

They went their respective ways.

xxx

Sam was already deep into research when Dean returned. He was hunched over his laptop at the table– in that horrible posture that always made Dean cringe – looking for any updates on the case that might've come up during the long drive.

"Any news?" Dean asked, setting down the carryout bags. He walked around the table, so he was standing behind Sam, to take a look. And while he was at it, he pinched Sam in the lower back to get him to sit up straighter.

Sam corrected his posture automatically and acknowledged Dean's question. "Not that I can find. As far as I know the current victim is still hanging on."

Dean nodded. "Good. That's good. No news is good news, huh?"

"Yeah, I guess," Sam sighed, closing his laptop.

Dean took a seat next to him and slid him his dinner. "So how do you want to approach this thing?"

Sam pondered the question. "Well, where do you think we should start tomorrow?" he asked. "Museum or hospital?"

Dean raised his eyebrows. "Is the museum even open?"

"Yeah, it is. They haven't closed it down yet since they aren't able to trace the genome of the bacteria." Sam removed the lid to his takeout container and inspected it thoroughly. "What the heck is this?"

Dean shook the takeout bag, where it was clearly written: Skyline: Cincinnati Chili. "It's chili, dude. The locals apparently go crazy over this stuff. I got you a '4-Way.'"

Sam turned up his nose. "This is so _not_ chili. It's… it's watery meat sauce on noodles."

Dean examined his own dish. To be fair, Sam gave what appeared to be an accurate description. But Dean was willing to try anything. He shrugged and reached for his plastic fork. He took a big bite and chewed.

Well, it didn't taste like chili, but it was still _insanely_ good. Dean understood why the locals raved over the stuff. One bite and he was hooked. The flavor of the sauce was so rich, and the cheese was fine and fresh. "Oh my _God_ , Sam, you have to try this," he breathed heavenly, eyes closed and savoring the taste. "It's amazing."

Sam leaned forward to sniff his chili. He recoiled with a huff and pushed his container away. "You couldn't _pay_ me to eat that."

Dean chortled and grabbed his brother's container. "Suit yourself. More for me. Oh, and just so you know…" Dean reached into the bag and pulled out the remaining items. "I had a feeling you'd be too much of a pansy to try the chili, so here." He handed Sam a salad and a baked potato. "For you, your highness. Bon appétit."

Sam glowered at Dean, but dug into his salad anyway.

"So, the plan…?" Dean prompted through another mouthful.

Sam shrugged. "I say we just go as tourists. If at some point we need to become federal agents, then we will. But who knows if this is even a case, man."

Dean rolled his eyes. "I thought you said this was worth checking out."

"I did. And it is."

"All right, so if this is our type of gig, what do you think we're dealing with? A witch? A spirit?"

Sam nodded thoughtfully. "Yeah. Could be. I say we just test the place for EMF… see if we have anything of substance. Heck, we can even look for a hex bag while we're at it."

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. "Well, I'm not holdin' my breath," he admitted. "And if it turns out this isn't a case, then we're gonna hang around here and get some decent rest. We both need it, man. 'Sides, I heard some people talkin' about this place called Graeter's _._ It's a local ice cream chain. Apparently it's so frickin' good that Oprah has it _shipped_ to her. I need to get in on some of that."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Whatever man. I don't trust a city that holds this chili slander" – he motioned to Dean's dish – "on a pedestal."

Dean scoffed. "Says the guy who won't even try it. You don't know what you're missin', man."

He shoved in another bite.

 **TBC...**


End file.
